


you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing

by inkfiction



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: 25 Lives, 25 Lives by Tongari, F/F, Reincarnation, Sanvers - Freeform, but it's all connected sorta?, like in my mind all the lives are basically one life, very doctor who-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:22:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23425459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkfiction/pseuds/inkfiction
Summary: In this life you are both almost the same age, in your late twenties.Which is a plus as far as you know, because there have been lives where she was a kid, and sometimes you were a kid, and it gets very awkward, loving her, in such situations. And you do almost always end up loving her anyway. It’s in your DNA matrix, in your very soul. You always love her.Except for that fourteenth life where the two of you had hated each other.
Relationships: Alex Danvers/Maggie Sawyer
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing

**Author's Note:**

> This was written back when sanvers started and we barely had a couple of episodes. 25 Lives by Tongari is a stunning poem, one of my absolute favorites. The comic by Hwei Lim is also stunning. If you haven't seen it, you can find it [here](https://www.shousetsubangbang.com/mirror/25-lives/). Beautiful art for beautiful art. The title from E. E. Cummings.
> 
> _i fear  
>  no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want  
> no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)  
> and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant  
> and whatever a sun will always sing is you  
> here is the deepest secret nobody knows  
> (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud  
> and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows  
> higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)  
> and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart  
> i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)  
>  **— e. e. cummings**_

In this life you are both almost the same age, in your late twenties. 

Which is a plus as far as you know, because there have been lives where she was a kid, and sometimes you were a kid, and it gets very awkward, loving her, in such situations. And you do almost always end up loving her anyway. It’s in your DNA matrix, in your very soul. You always love her. 

Except for that fourteenth life where the two of you had hated each other. 

But it’s all so mingled up, you can never be sure if that wasn’t just love wrapped in hatred and murderous anger. 

There have been lives when you have killed her or she has killed you or you have both killed each other, lives when you found her too soon or too late and couldn’t keep her, lives where you were too young or too old to be in each other’s orbit. 

So this one, you think, seems kind of just right.

In this life her name is Alex Danvers. 

It tastes old and new and strange and familiar on your tongue. Just the way her name always does, whatever it turns out to be in each life. It’s nice, the syllables rounded and merging into each other. 

It suits this life of hers, the dark brown inverted bob that glimmers red in the sunlight, the dark jacket and pants, the serious looks. 

But then all her names do. She has a knack of making them her own in each life. Something, you think, you’ve never quite mastered. You are called Maggie in this life. Which, I mean, honestly! Maggie!

In this life she doesn’t know this, though. Doesn’t know Maggie Sawyer. Doesn’t know you. 

It takes you a moment to figure that out, the aloof tone, the hostile look in her eyes. It takes you a moment to realize it’s one of those lives where she doesn’t remember. 

The surge of recognition that had bloomed — the suddenly brightened world, hyper-focused, hyper-colored, the way your chest flared with warmth like there were twin suns bursting out of it, the brilliance of her gaze, every shade of the dark brown iris discernible — all of it pales into a sudden sharp ache in your heart and you blink back the sting in your eyes and plaster a cocky smirk on your face.

There is work to do, not the least of which is the extraterrestrial being threatening the life of the president.

In this life there are aliens and life on other planets but for now you are just thankful you both managed to land on the same planet.

In this life she is a hot shot agent for some government agency. The no-nonsense suit, the curt voice, the hard, non-negotiable gaze, she’s got it all down pat. 

You are a police detective. Born to be at odds with the government agents that swarm to interfere with your crime scenes. You feel a familiar thrill run down your spine as she keeps talking.

“Your jurisdiction ends where I say it ends,” she says, and, god, you want to grab her face with both hands and mess up that straight arrow hairdo. You want to kiss her senseless. In that moment you forget you had forged yourself a life before her, that you were with someone, a really nice girl. 

She also has a knack of doing that, turning your whole life upside down in each life. There you’d be, all settled and pretty _boring_ , and out she would pop at the most inconvenient times. Just like this one.

The only thought in your head is, _I’ve missed you, you asshole!_

She keeps on being very, very annoying and also hot as hell, and you clench your thighs together. Well, dammit, you’re pretty hot yourself, thank you very much. Your smile game is _on point_ . You have a _slayer dimple_. You bring it into play. Flash it at her. She notices. You notice her noticing. She doesn’t falter. You won’t give up. She wins this round. But you find the warehouse first. She finds you, and, dammit, she looks too hot in tactical gear. She’s DEO. Figures.

She thinks you are a civilian and should let her do her job. You want to take off that tactical gear piece by piece, and also do _your_ fucking job. 

It’s a stalemate. 

For some reason you end up exchanging numbers? And you kinda don’t even know how it happens? 

And then you call her up, casually offering to share trade secrets. Your S.O. would probably kill you if she knew.

She arrives on a Ducati Monster. There’s a whole Hollywood moment of helmet removal and silky hair shaking and all, and what the _fuck_ , Alex Danvers, what a fucking show-off! 

Your heart overflows with immense fondness and threatens to burst out of your ribcage. You immediately make a comment about your Bonneville T100 — bit of a show-off yourself — and head towards the bar. And when you tell her you’re going to buy her a drink, you pretend not to notice the slight blush. But you _notice._

There’s a moment inside when she does the whole DEO agent thing, panicking at seeing all the aliens and going for the gun at the back of her waistband — which, so fucking _cliche_ , Danvers! — and you grab her hand to stop her, and then you never want to let go. 

How does she manage to do that to you in every life? Reduce you to this smiling mess with heart palpitations, looking at her with adoring, ga-ga eyes, no matter whether she is four or eight or twenty-eight or eighty. It’s ridiculous.

She goes off to catch her alien, and you spend the evening with your girlfriend, trying to box in that impatient, unruly heart of yours.

The next day you managed to get kidnapped by another deranged alien.

Later, the terror of that moment would seem to be a surreal thing, the fear, the uncertainty. Would she even notice? Would she come for you, a virtual stranger? Would you even survive, see her again, get to know her as Alex Danvers, get to make her remember? Your first life, and fourth, and eighteenth, and twenty-first… you lose count at times.

You should probably have kissed her at the bar last night, probably grabbed that hand, and turned her around, and kissed her hard. She would probably have shot you in the gut, the asshole. You want to sob a little.

Later, the people at the bar, Darla and Boris and all, tell you how driven she had been when she was looking for you. “I swear, Sawyer,” Boris says, “I thought she was gonna kill me right here with that damn chair! I think several dozen of my beard hair turned white that night, that girl is scary!”

But she saves you, and you save her, and it all kinda works out in the end. Well, mostly.

She takes you to that shmancy HQ of hers which looks like it’s an underground evil lair, very Bond villain sexy, getting your cuts and bruises looked at.

She wants you to stay. _God_ . She’s looking at you, her eyes all soft and gooey. It’s making your heart flutter. You’re pretty sure you have a disturbingly sappy expression on your own face right about now, and, for some reason, despite the burns and cuts and bruises, you cannot stop. Fucking. _Smiling_. 

And you cannot stay. You have a date. But also, if you stay one more minute you’re reasonably sure you’re going to push her against a wall or something and _jump_ her, and that would ruin _every! thing!_

So, instead, you tell her you have a hot date, and, “Oh,” she says, and you want to die a little bit. But her eyes are still soft, and her smile is still genuine as she watches you leave.

And it’s only just the beginning. Soon you will break-up with your girlfriend. Soon she will realize she’s gay. Soon she will remember you in her soul. But right now it’s only just the beginning.


End file.
